Lord of Trebond
by Eliarra
Summary: Collection of oneshots centering around Alanna's father.
1. Forget

**Forget**

The Black God's kingdom is a place to forget. Lord Alan of Trebond finds that he cannot forget quickly enough. Coming here, he learned things he never wanted to know. He learned that his son was brave enough to do the thing he could never do himself. He learned that his daughter is more like her mother than he ever imagined. If he wishes that he lives, still, it is only because he wants to forget these things that he never knew in life. If the dead could cry…

When he is not thinking about his children, he is thinking about his wife. He isn't able to find her here, no matter how hard he looks. The Peaceful Realms are endless. Nor is he able to forget her, and if he cannot find her, forgetting her would be second-best.

He walks this dark and never-ending land and tries not to remember, but he can do nothing to stop himself. Thom. His only son. Who found the courage to do what he could not: to escape the military life, to study as Lord Alan had always wanted to study, to make his life _his own_, without allowing for the constant push and pull of others' desires. Alanna, who brings change with her as much as her mother had did, although where his daughter brings change with much flash and flare, his wife did it quietly, escaping notice.

Lady Eleanor. The woman he married. The woman he loves. The woman who died, on the day she bore his children. Lady Eleanor: calm and beautiful and perfect and everything he could ever ask for, and lost. Lost, now that he has finally come to join her.

"Are you at peace?" the Black God asks him.

He looks at the dark figure and says nothing.

"Are you unhappy here?" the Black God asks him.

"I am… sorry," he replies. It is the only thing he can think of to say. The Black God nods: a slow, majestic motion that is sorrowful in itself. And then the Black God is gone, and in his place…

Alan does not recognize her at first, for she does not look like herself. She wears black, and there is none of the old humor in her expression, none of the spark in her eyes. But then, she is dead, and has been for long years. Eleanor. Found, at long last. And Lord Alan finds that he can cry, after all.


	2. Don't Think

**Don't Think**

Don't think.

That's the advice his mother gave him, and he tries to follow it. Tries too hard and trips and falls for the third time, and although they would get in trouble if they laughed aloud, they don't need to. He can almost _feel_ their amusement. It feels a little like the time he burnt his fingers in candle flame.

Don't think.

The wooden staff rams into him, hard. He tries to ignore the pain, and wonders if the tears at the corners if his eyes are showing. He can't wipe them away, because that would mean letting go of his staff, and he isn't allowed to let go of his staff. Besides, it would like as if he'd dropped it, and that _would_ make them laugh aloud.

Don't think.

He never considered who hard it would be to simply obey those words. At home, it was easy. Too easy, because, as his father was so fond of telling him, he never thought. But here, his thoughts keep going and going--mostly complaining thoughts that he _knows_ he shouldn't be thinking, about how miserable he is and how he wishes he is somewhere else.

Don't think. Don't think, Alan. Don't think.

You wouldn't think the advice would be helpful in the classes, but it is. They give him strange looks when he knows the answers that they don't. When he stays up later than anyone making sure his work is done, and consequently is too tired to sit up during the day. Every day.

Don't think.

The next time the staff comes down, his mind is blank and, unthinking, he blocks it.


	3. Distracted

Note: I forgot to do this last time, but I just wanted to express my immense gratitude to anyone who took the time to review, and to anyone who bothered to click on this story.

**Distracted**

Alan does not remember Gareth of Naxen as a bully. Oh, he was not that—never that—for he is the epitome of a knight, or was in the time Alan knew him, and knights are not bullies.

But he had his ways of getting to you—even without being a bully, he had his ways. Alan remembers the day he met the other boy. He bowed just low enough to be mocking, and gave Alan a look that said he knew even then what a pathetic excuse he was for a warrior.

Alan puts down his pen—he's getting distracted again—and runs his hands through his hair. Eleanor said— Eleanor said—he can't remember now just what it was Eleanor told him to do, although it's quite easy to remember just the way Gareth's face looked the first time he tripped and fell during practice.

He was a squire by the time he figured out why Gareth hated him, although he should have known much sooner. But Alan has never been a good judge of people, and that's something he knows about himself, at least. A flaw he can allow himself to face.

Gareth—two years into his page training, bright and athletic and popular—was perfect when Alan came to the palace. It seemed among the pages that he stood above even Prince Roald. And now he's somehow gotten Prince Roald to marry his sister, and he's King Roald now, not Prince Roald. Although he doesn't really remember Gareth being particularly manipulative, so maybe it _isn't_ entirely his fault that his sister is now the Queen of Tortall.

Alan sighs and looks down once more at his parchment. His eyes are unfocused and he sees his untidy handwriting only as dark scratches on a pale background. Yesterday—he's almost certain it was yesterday—Eleanor told him that he is getting old too quickly. And, he realizes, he agrees with her. Eleanor does not look old. Slender, her pregnancy barely showing, her face unlined, her hair dark and her eyes bright—but Alan has to admit that he acts like on old man, sitting here at his desk all day.

Gareth. He's thinking about Gareth, and he's gotten himself distracted once again. Gareth was able to best Alan easily in all things physical, but when it came to their classes, Alan often got the better of him, simply because he didn't know how to be quiet. He's learned, since then. He knows perfectly well how to be quiet.

So Gareth hated him—probably still hates him— one thing about Gareth was his memory, and he always held a grudge. And Alan hated Gareth back—still hates him, if truth be told, hates him enough that he's still thinking about him, after all these years.

Now. What is it that Eleanor wants of him? Easiest to simply go ask her. He _is_ getting old too fast, having trouble with his memory, so easily distracted, and it worries him a little, but he's happy. He has Eleanor, doesn't he? And a son soon, who can be a better knight even than Gareth—or maybe a daughter, who can be as beautiful and wonderful as Eleanor. So yes, he's distracted, but with this life, he's happy.


	4. Nightmares and Dreams

**Nightmares and Dreams**

"I had a nightmare, the night before last," he says, although he'd rather not think about that particular dream. And curse Gainel for sending it to him. "That you died, when the twins were born."

"That's—that's horrible, Alan," she replies, but her heart isn't in it. He doesn't blame her. She wasn't there, to witness the horror of the dream, and he's glad that she wasn't, and he'd rather not think about it anymore.

Eleanor is working on her embroidery, and Alan is leafing through some papers. Alanna is off with Maude the witch, training her Gift, although he knows she'd rather be here, with her mother. Thom is off training for a little, and Alan knows that he'd rather not be in that situation, either.

"Just the basics," Alan told his son. "Just so that you can defend yourself, and no more. After that, you may do what you will." And Thom fairly glowed. Alan smiles. If only his own father had been so lenient. If only he'd been allowed to become a scholar, rather than a knight. But he doesn't mind so much, now. Life turned out well enough, didn't it?

Eleanor sets down her embroidery. "This really is rather dull," she says, and stands, and walks over to him. "Your years as a squire were hard, I know, but be glad you didn't have to attend the convent."

"Was it really so bad?" Alan asks, looking up into his wife's violet eyes. Extraordinary eyes, passed down to both of their children. "You know how much Alanna wants to go. To be just like you." She'd been interested in being a warrior for a time, but the phase had come and gone.

He remembers something she said: "Mother's more a warrior than… than you, for all she holds no shield." And it's true. Eleanor is a warrior, in her own way, and certainly much more so than he is, and he's proud of his daughter for noticing it.

He puts his arms around Eleanor, and she returns the embrace. They kiss, and Alan is blissfully happy. At least for a time. Until he wakes up and realizes that a dream so full of joy is more a nightmare than any dream of death. He doesn't want to speak to his children that day, for they remind him of _her_ more than ever. And now they are pestering him, pestering him about something…

"That is my decision," he says. "We need not discuss it."


End file.
